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September 4, 2003 unfinished song with no name RAW, You may have noticed I haven't been writing in my journal lately.  The Silverback holds that, since the journal isn't a job, there's no obligation either to write or to quit writing.  But I haven't been idle.  Perhaps inspired by the upcoming music festival in Telluride, I have been making up songs using nothing more than my brain, my guitar, black ink, and yellow paper. As I say, I make up songs; I don't write music.  I can't.  So I need your musician-son to write the music to the lyrics that follow this letter.  The melody rattling in my head is pretty good except for two minor problems: it's unmelodic and it changes every time I play it.  I'm using as chords D, G, A, and D (again) before I scramble them up for the chorus and add an Em.  I'm trying to achieve a cross-pollination between Steve Earle and Robert Goulet, sort of alt-country-lounge.  Finally, please note I must write two more verses and name the song.  Perhaps I'll have that completed by the time your son springs for the music. ARJ   It's six in the evening, I sit by the phone, Hoping it ain't gonna ring. I peek through the blinds, Just to prove that I'm home, I cry so I won't try to sing. I wound her with kindness, For killin's too quick, I love her while running away. Her kisses are sweet, But they're makin' me sick, Like a punk version of "Yesterday." CHORUS: I stole all her sins just to make them my own, I pawned them, She bought them right back. And traded me in when a New Age was dawnin', He's custom, and I'm off the rack.

©  2003 by the beastmaster